


New Haven

by fereldenpeach



Series: Evelia Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Confident Cullen, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Headcanon, Limb loss, Married Couple Doing the Married Sex, Mild Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser, Smut, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 09:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fereldenpeach/pseuds/fereldenpeach
Summary: After their marriage, Cullen and Evelia "retire" to a small abandoned village to start their life together. How will they cope now that they are no longer saving the world?





	New Haven

**Author's Note:**

> Deleted this long ass thing a while back. Wanted to put my actual Trevelyan in here instead of the generic one and fix a few things that ended up stifling my steam. Bringing it back because I want to finish it and I just so happen to love their story.
> 
>  
> 
> POV will alternate between C & E.
> 
> This is mostly "Canon" and my gameplay "canon" compliant. Still all the headcanon trash, so fair warning to new readers. <3

“Er…this has got to be it.”

Cullen glanced down at Mia’s address scrawled across the top of the local South Reach map one last time, inspecting it for any trace of identifier that would have told otherwise.

With a huff, he flicked his gaze up to find Evelia pressing her ear to the door, listening for sounds or voices that would provide any signs of life on the inside. With a shrug, she reached for the handle.

“Ugh, _Maker_ —What are you  doing?” he asked, exasperation clinging to his breath.

“Opening the door?”

Cullen groaned, realizing that her behavior of inspecting any building she wished had not been a habit easily broken now that her title of Inquisitor had been officially shed.

“If this is even the right house.” He looked up to study the roof as if it could somehow give him _some_ semblance of reassurance.

“I could look around, Ser!” shouted Jim.

Standing several yards away and holding the reins of each of their horses with Cullen’s mabari, Wolf, impatiently sitting at his side, Jim shifted his weight, uncertain that he should have shouted at all.

Jim—one of the scouts with nowhere else to turn since the Inquisition’s disbandment—had accompanied their journey to South Reach, along with a handful of other former Inquisition soldiers. However, during the weeks’ progression from Skyhold to South Reach, Cullen had begun to wonder whether or not that was such a good idea.

“I could ask some of the locals…” continued Jim in his half-confident volume.

Cullen shook his head and motioned for him to shut the hell up.

Frowning, Evelia threw a glance over her shoulder and spotted a woman just a few houses over tending to the weeds sprouting around her doorstep.

“Excuse me, Serah,” Evelia called, turning to approach the hunched-over woman. “Do you know if this is the Rutherford residence?”

The woman started and her face twisted in confusion as she looked up, taken aback by the faces of strangers addressing her in such a manner.

“It is,” she said, straining to stand. She dusted the dirt off her hands and placed them upon her hips. “I believe she’s gone on an errand of sorts with some of her other visitors. Raucous bunch, that lot.”

The woman glanced over to Cullen, sizing him up from the golden curls of his head to the armor and fur surcoat draped over his shoulders—all the way down to the hardy boots on his feet. “Are you family?”

“We are,” said Evelia.

Cullen’s scar lifted, the corner of his mouth drawn upwards. He wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of her voice when she spoke, the casual confidence behind it, or the truth of the words themselves that prompted his heart to stir. It had been three years since they’d first joined the Inquisition—two of which they’d been whole-heartedly devoted to one another in their no-longer-secret relationship—and despite the fact that the Herald of Andraste in a sense belonged to all of Thedas, at the end of the day when their armor came off and their hands were cleaned of demon blood and ink stains, Evelia Trevelyan—the woman behind the many names of worship her people had given her—belonged to him, and he to her. And only just then, even after their marriage and week-long trek from Val Royeaux, all the way through their hurried eviction from Skyhold, did it fully dawn on him that she was not only his, but his family’s as well.

His sudden urge to reach out and touch her was near painful to resist, and the old woman’s scoff quickly brought him out of his reverie.

“Well, then,” she said, “Do be a dear and tell them to keep it down…after night…fall…” The woman’s voice trailed off, her gaze catching the absence of Evelia's left arm as her eyes flicked back and forth between the pair and quickly darting to the caravan awaiting their orders. Her face morphed—realization stretching the woman’s wrinkles into different sections of her face—her mouth gaping, eyes wide. She slowly lifted her palms as if in offering and then pressed them together in reverence—her voice silent, mouth forming title after titlebefore softly reciting the Chanticle of Benedictions.

Warmth flooded Evelia's cheeks and she nodded awkwardly. “I’ll pass along the request. Thank you.” 

She returned to the house and approached the door—throwing Cullen a teasing and sheepish grin. “Now, was that so difficult?” she asked, pressing her shoulder against the heavy wooden door with the turn of the handle.

Cullen followed Evelia inside. The house, while humble in structure and decorative adornments, was much _larger_ than Cullen had anticipated. 

The entryway opened into a cozy sitting area that branched toward a large kitchen with a grand dinner table separating the two sections of the elongated room. To his left was a fireplace—its flames crackling quietly, letting off just enough heat to keep the immediate room toasty without stifling the house with too much smoke and overbearing heat. Across the stone floor was a heavily trafficked (and once thick-roped) rug—its deep maroon threads complemented both the tawny drapes hanging over the windows and the matching blanket thrown haphazardly across the arm of a chair.

The kitchen at the back was covered with both fresh and dried herbs—the latter of which hung beautifully from the ceiling at the back of the room like decorative garland. Baskets of recently picked fruits and vegetables perched on the table along the wall, and atop a wooden peel rested an absurdly large loaf of bread beside a wheel of cheese, vials of oils and vinegars, and small containers of salts and spices, complementing the preparation for what he assumed would be the spread for their dinner celebration.

A black, stone stove protruded from the wall on the far-left corner, its curved smokestack nestled into the back wall of the house. And scattered across the table dividing the seating area from the kitchen—which could easily seat ten—was a collection of papers, letters, and the scrawled drawings of children.

All of the worry and guilty doubt that had built up over his years away suddenly melted, and Cullen’s chest swelled with pride—Mia had done well for herself.

His eyes wandered over every object, trying to work out the history he had missed due to duty, hardly noticing when Evelia quietly stepped out to order Jim and the others around back so they could set up the horses and unpack for their temporary stay. The door behind him shut with a click and Evelia returned to Cullen’s side, wrapping her arm around his bicep and leaning into him—her temple coming to rest against the fur of his mantle.

And Cullen let out a deep and contemplative sigh, his chest swelling against his breastplate and relaxing through an emotional, nearly-broken exhale.

“Everything alright?” Evelia asked, her voice penetrating the warm and comforting silence.

“Quite alright,” he said, turning toward her and cupping her face in his hands. His eyes crinkled, a smile spread across his lips.

Cullen caressed the rough pads of his thumbs over the softness of her cheeks, gazing into her eyes in search of some sort of answer to how he had become so lucky, how the Maker had allowed such things into his life. It was a question he’d asked time and time again since he’d first discovered that she loved him in return—a question he’d hope he’d always be able to ask.

She returned an exhausted but perfectly contented smile, and stepped closer into his embrace, pressing her leather-clad body against his heavily armored one. He bent forward, lips brushing hers in what was meant to be a quick and delicate kiss.  But her lips plumped in response to his touch, desire flooding her entire body as if even the very blood inside her veins yearned for him—reaching out to the surface just so it could be nearer to him. She sucked into their kiss, tugging his lower lip into her mouth with the flick of her tongue and a flash of teeth.

Her hand drifted to his chest and a desperate little sound escaped from the joining of their mouths—for her fingertips met cool metal—prompting that disappointed whine simply because it was not his skin upon her touch.  And Cullen let out a hum of amusement, smoothing his hands underneath her cloak and over her back in response to her frustration, continuing down until his broad palms reached her ass where he firmly grasped handfuls and _squeezed_ her flesh through her leathers.

And even through her clothing, his motions pulled apart the folds of her sex and she gasped, wanting—no, _needing_ nothing more than to be completely filled there. He tugged her hips to collide into his own, grinding his cock into her with an unabashed lewdness and a wicked smile.

“We’re going to have to consummate our marriage sometime soon, you know,” she said, her whisper traveling on a ragged breath.

Who would have thought that the high drama of the Exalted Council, the confrontation with both Solas and the Qunari, the dismantling of the Inquisition, and their last-minute decision to march toward South Reach would have provided very little time for any type of wedding-night intimacy?

His cock pressed a hard line between them and he rolled his hips against her.

“Mmhmm,” he mumbled, eyes closed.

Warmth flooded between her legs and before she knew it, his hand had breached the band of her leggings from behind. His rough but gentle fingers teased at her slick and swollen folds, moving this way and that to elicit a soft sigh from her lips.

“Makers breath, you’re wet,” he whispered, his cock giving a twitch against the inside of his leather trousers.

“Cullen—” she whined. And the need in her voice was enough.

He spun her around and pressed her up against the door, the upward thrust of his hips between her thighs lifting her from the ground. Evelia's hand sought purchase on his armor, holding on as best as she could and realizing that the loss of her left hand had unfortunately proven to be an inconvenience for all future trysts. But her hips rose to meet his every motion and he secured his right arm under her left, knowingly.  His other hand grasped at her breasts, mouth moving over the length of her neck and the pulse beneath her skin. The fresh smell of her slick on his fingers was intoxicating, producing a growl from deep within his chest—and he knew no other reaction than to bite into her shoulder before sending his tongue dancing wildly against her ear, breath hot and steamy and floating with words of love and impatience and sweet nothings that all but had her melted. 

And her body stiffened between his and the door—a frozen stance not unlike as if a powerful orgasm had rendered her limbs so rigid—

But it was fear instead. 

Faint voices called out from the other side of the house and Jim’s awkward tenor suddenly burst to life, conversing loudly and comically with several adult and child-like tones.

“Cullen?” Evelia whispered.

Back in Skyhold, the whole of the keep had previously and quickly learned that if their Inquisitor and Commander were behind closed doors, not one soul was to interrupt lest the find themselves glimpsing twisting limbs and moaning faces or staring down various, unspeakable holes—a lesson Josephine, Cassandra, and Jim all had to glean the hard way. To which, the inhabitants of Skyhold developed an established yet unofficial code forewarning their resident lovers of approach.

“Yes, my love?” Cullen’s voice was deep, lost.

His hips continued their rolling motions, tongue licking at the valley between her collarbones, drunk on his lust for her.

“Cullen, stop. The family—”

He finally surfaced—his color high, face glinting with a fine sheen of sweat. “ _What_?” he said, releasing her to nearly stumble to the floor. “Ah, Maker, sorry.”

Jim’s panicked voice rang out, fluctuating with rising intonations, and he all but crowed like a startled raven.

Cullen groaned and readjusted his sticky, sensitive, and incredibly hard cock—hiding it discreetly within the waistband of his trousers.

Evelia quickly ran her fingers through her hair and swiped the back of her hand over her mouth, looking for a mirror or some sort of reflective surface to check on her disheveled state. She spied Cullen’s gloves hanging from the side of his belt and snatched them.

“Put these on,” she said, pushing them into his hands.

“Why? Ohhh…” He flushed in near instant realization, sliding his fingers into them just as the back-door burst open.

“Cullen!”

The Rutherford family spilled into the house like a mob, nearly clamoring over each other to finally set eyes on their brother.

(And somewhere behind them, Cullen caught glimpse of Jim with his hands clapped to his hood-covered head. He dropped them in relief upon finding that his Commander was fully clothed.)

Mia crossed the threshold first, smile wide and bright. The length of her dark blonde plait cascaded over her shoulder, sprinkled with wiry gray hairs. Her chocolate-colored eyes brimmed with tears and they threatened to spill over her flushed face at any moment. Dropping her basket onto the nearest countertop, she all but sprinted toward her brother, clasping him in the tightest hug his armor would allow.

“Thank the Maker,” she said, face burying into his surcoat. “Oh, how I have missed you.”

He secretly tugged his hips back from her embrace, cheeks flushing in fear that their close proximity would reveal his previous and secret actions with his wife.

Branson followed close on Mia’s heels, and he placed a hand onto Cullen’s back, the smack of flesh meeting metal rang out throughout the room.

“Nice,” he said, rapping his knuckles on Cullen’s armor. “Oh, look at you two,” he said to his siblings, “Rose and I just can’t seem to measure up to ol’ Cullen. Huh, Mia?” he teased.

“Oh, Branson, you know that’s not true,” said Mia, reluctantly turning her brother loose.

Branson extended his arm to shake and Cullen clapped into it, before pulling him in for a quick embrace.

(He said a silent prayer thanking Evelia that she’d suggested he put on his gloves.)

“It’s good to see you, man,” Branson said quietly, wanting to make as little fuss as possible.

Cullen grinned, “You too.”

“What now? I know I heard my name…” came Rosalie’s voice, and Cullen looked up to see his baby sister waddling through the door, her belly round and full. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head—the short wisps of hair not long enough to reach the bun stuck to her skin in sweat across her neck and along her forehead.

Behind her stepped Branson’s wife Amelia, their son Barron on her hip. He squirmed until she set him down, and he ran past Rosalie’s careful gait until he reached Branson’s legs, of which he quickly wrapped his arms around.

“Hello, there,” said Cullen, reaching out to shake his hand.

“Ello, Cul,” said Barron.

Rosalie finally reached the others and extended her arm.

“Come here, you,” she said, sliding her arm around his waist in a side-hug, knowing full well that her belly would interfere in any other type of hold.

Branson jutted a thumb over to his wife and she looked up at Cullen with her bright blue eyes.

“That’s Amelia,” he said, “You remember her, right? Used to chase me around the windmill back in Honnleath?”

Cullen smiled, and Evelia wasn’t quite sure if he was turning on his charm or if he had in fact remembered, but he shook her hand all the same and nodded. “Indeed, I’ve heard great things about you.”

She tucked a lock of her dark hair behind her ear, “Nice to meet you, Commander.”

“Ah…just Cullen,” he said quickly, “Please.”

“Who’s that?” said Barron suddenly, pointing at Evelia from behind Branson’s legs.

Cullen reached out for her to join his side, and she closed the space between them. A rosy color filled her cheeks.

“This is Evelia,” he said, “She’s my wife.”

The entire Rutherford clan stared at her, unsure of how they should approach their ‘Inquisitor—Herald of Andraste—Savior of Thedas,’ sister-in-law, especially since the events of the Exalted Council.

Mia stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.

“Welcome, Evelia. We are all so glad to have you, and to meet you at last,” she said.

Evelia wrapped her arm around her shoulders, relief washing over her.

Rosalie reached in to hug them both—her belly fitting nicely between them—and Evelia could hear Branson’s whisper of “You did good, man,” to Cullen off to the side.

“She’s got an arm off,” said Barron loudly, tugging at his father’s trousers.

Amelia shushed her son and Evelia shrugged, “It’s alright,” she said as her sisters-in-law released her.

She squatted down to the ground on Barron’s level and motioned him forward. “Want to see?”

With a half-concerned look up at his father, he moved toward her and examined the absence of her limb. His tiny, chubby fingers softly touched the muscle of her bicep, inching around to the end where the fabric folded upward and was pinned out of the way. He waved his hand underneath, just to be sure there was no trick to her missing arm.

She studied him carefully, watching his expressions as his brain worked out his curiosity. He glanced his hazel eyes up at her grayish-green ones and grinned, his little button nose crinkling before running back to Branson to hide.

“Daddy, she’s pretty,” he whispered into the back of his father’s knees.

Evelia stood back up and the entire room burst out into laughter at Barron’s words. Cullen pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her temple.

But Mia clapped her hands together, suddenly realizing how far behind she was on her work. “Well, I believe I need to start dinner for our guests of honor,” she said, “But first, let me show you to your room.” She ushered them to the right side of the house. “Amelia, will you start cleaning those fish?” she yelled over her shoulder.

She proceeded to open a door, revealing a spare bedroom. “Here we are,” she said, throwing it wide.

The room was quaint—a fairly large bed with thick blankets draped neatly over the mattress filled the majority of the room. A chest of drawers sat to the right, and on the left of the bed stood a small desk and seat next to the window overlooking the backyard. Opposite the window was a mirror, reflecting warm rays into the humble room. And in the far-right corner next to a small wardrobe stood a set of armor racks.

“Nora next door was only too excited to lend me her husband’s stands for the Inquisitor and Commander of the Inquisition,” said Mia, gesturing. “You should have seen her face. She may try to drop by tomorrow, but I told her you would be too tired from your travels to take visitors. I know that may or may not be truthful, but I’d prefer not to share at the moment.”

She smiled before wiping her hands down the blanket on the bed, smoothing out wrinkles.

“The washroom is over on my side of the house—the door on the right. You’re welcome to clean up before dinner. I’ve already set out fresh linens for you both, if need be.”

“Thank you, Mia. I’ll definitely be taking you up on that offer,” Evelia said, eyeing her husband with a nudging glance.

“I…yes, thank you.”

Mia sighed and threw her arms about her brother one more time—a reaffirmation that he was indeed under her roof and under her care. She hugged Evelia just the same.

“We’ll have dinner ready in about an hour.” She pulled the door to upon her exit.

Cullen looked at Evelia for a long moment, emotion riddled across his face. Through the entirety of the Inquisition, even the two years after the breach had been sealed, he never would have thought that he’d have the chance to stand in the spare bedroom of his sister’s home with the Inquisitor—his wife. The emotion he felt was foreign, if somewhat undeserving. What had he done to be bestowed with something better than he could possibly have dreamt up himself?

He grabbed Evelia by the waist and pulled her close, wrapping his arms about her body.

She let out an “Oh” with surprise and smiled at him, bringing her hand to his neck for balance. He held her there, gazing down at her with such an odd expression, she couldn’t help but to move her fingers to his face, delicately drawing over the lines so heavily wrought with happiness and confusion.

“I love you,” she said, knowing that he was undoubtedly questioning his very existence in the world.

The corners of his lips lifted and he choked back a broken laugh, “I’ll never understand why,” he said, his hand coming up to cradle the side of her face, “but, I love you, too. With all of my being.”

She lifted her face up to his and he placed a soft kiss upon her lips.

“Cullen?” she asked, her voice low.

“Yes, darling?”

“Will you go get our things from Jim? I just know he’s not bothered with our pack.”

Cullen snorted, “And I thought you were going to ask me strip you bare and ravish you here on the bed.” He nipped a kiss at the end of her nose.

“Not til I’ve bathed,” she said coyly.

He grinned and turned to open the door.

“Go on, I’ll meet you in the washroom,” he said, heading toward the back of the house.

Evelia shed herself of her armor and draped the leather and cloth over the stand. It took her longer than normal to remove her armor without assistance, but she managed well enough. She inspected herself in the mirror for just a brief moment. Her worn tunic hung off her body awkwardly now that her leathers no longer held it snug, and she pushed back the shag of her grown-out, auburn hair from her eyes with an exasperated huff. But the image of her remaining appendage caught her eye and she glared at it forlornly. With a sigh on her lips, she left to meet her husband in the washroom.

* * *

“Hey, Wolf,” said Cullen, scratching behind the ears of his mabari.

Jim approached the pair before Cullen could even inquire about their things, a large pack in tow. “Here you are, Ser,” he said, dropping it at Cullen’s feet.

“Thank you, Jim.” He rummaged through the bag and procured a pouch of coins. “There’s a tavern on the other side of the village. This should be enough for everyone for the next two nights.” He tossed it into Jim’s hands and the scout looked up at him. “Do as you wish for the remainder of the day. You’ll report to me here tomorrow morning, as usual. Keep a close eye and ear out for anything peculiar, particularly if anyone mentions Evelia.”

Wolf made an affirmative sound deep in his throat.

“Certainly, Ser,” said Jim. “Should we patrol?” he added with a whisper.

“Quietly,” he said softly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You may incite fear in the locals if you are seen. Shift work will be your best approach to appear non-threatening. We don’t want South Reach to think we are here on Inquisition business. We’re not of the Inquisition.” His intonation relayed a level of subtext meant only for Jim.

“Right,” confirmed the scout.

Cullen pointed at the pouch in Jim’s hand, raising his voice back to a normal volume. “And make sure to divvy that out fairly amongst the others. I’ll hear word, otherwise,” he warned with the lift of his brow.

“Yes, Ser.”

“Come on,” Cullen said to Wolf while picking up his pack, “Let’s meet the family.”

Wolf wagged his little nub and followed his partner into the house, where he was introduced to each of his family members in turn. Wolf studied their faces, their smells, their body language, and gave Cullen a nod.

And with that, Cullen approached the other side of the house, easing open the washroom with caution in case Evelia happened to have already begun bathing. He pulled the door closed behind him and dropped the pack to the floor.

Evelia stood on the other side of the tub, her naked body facing away from him. He cleared his throat and she turned, the peaks of her breasts tightening in response to his voice.

He removed his coat and began unfastening his chest plate, watching as she sauntered to the wooden tub.

She dipped her fingers into the water and frowned, twisting her wrist and forming a ball of flames beneath the surface. The sizzling ceased almost instantly, steam swirling and curling away from the bath, and she smirked up at Cullen before climbing in.

“Ah,” she said on a moan, looking up at her husband through thick lashes.

With a clank, he settled the rest of his armor against the wall.

“Umm—” she started, staring at his chest as he slowly peeled the tunic from his body. His movements were achingly painful, revealing his hard, rippled torso as slowly as possible.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, knowing that his motions were going to rend her apart if he didn’t touch her soon.

“Could I have the soap…please?” Her gaze danced over his golden skin, drinking in every ripple of muscle that moved in his reach for the pack. He riffled around, removing a wax-papered rectangle decorated with all the flourishes of Val Royeaux and unwrapped it to hand it over.

Fingertips brushed with a tingling jolt, and their eyes met in a matched smolder. But Evelia sheepishly withdrew toward the back of the tub, covering her breasts with her arm as she lathered her neck and shoulder.

Cullen stepped closer to her, fumbling with the laces of his breeches, eyes traveling the length of her curves greedily. She wet her lips and looked up at him, pawing a soapy hand against her breast, grasping and kneading her fingers into the ample flesh.  He reached out, palming her cheek and caressing a thumb against her slick lips. They parted and he pressed in his thumb onto her tongue to explore the heat of her open mouth. Without a moment’s hesitation, Cullen pushed down his trousers and pulled her forward, guiding her mouth onto his hardening cock.

It was only half hard, pumping and thickening with every teasing motion she had made—but with it seated inside her mouth, it quickly filled her until he was harder than he was before, his length already beading at the back of her throat.

Taut lips closed around the base, nose nuzzling against his dark curls, and she inhaled his scent—musky and warm, like the aroma of a cozy summer day, with just a hint of the fig and honey fragrance from their soap.  She moaned onto him and his hips stammered, thrusting forward so that he grazed against her tongue and the silky insides of her cheeks. His thrusts were consistent at first, dragging in and out of the tautness of her lips. He cradled the back of her head with one hand and grasped at her throat with the other, wanting to feel his length glide down through her throat—wanting her to know that he knew what it was that he did to her.

Evelia's breath and motions were desperate, frantic, and quick—wanting to drink him as soon as possible, needing the flavor of his seed on her taste buds so badly that it was near painful.  She took him fully within her mouth, shaking her head against every buck of his hips, gliding her tongue in opposite directions against this twist and that.

Fingers gently slid up his inner thigh to cupped his sac, rolling him gently and wishing she hand the chance to pull him into her warm mouth—but he was close, his abdomen flexing all the way down to the base of his cock. The pumping pace of his hips quickened and he fucked her mouth fervently, balancing his foot against the lip of the tub for leverage so he could fuck her _properly_ —going as deep as he could, not waiting to see if she could breathe or swallow. She was his, and he was going to take her however he wished.

Evelia grasped at his ass in a panic, fingers digging into muscle and throat squeezing enough to send him over the edge. His hips stuttered and he bit his bottom lip to prevent a roar from sounding throughout the entire house. Instead, his low moan rumbled down into his chest and the hot slick of his spend poured down her throat in several long, steaming spurts.  She swallowed hungrily and gasped as he withdrew, panting wildly, but licking the very last of his seed from his sensitive head, desiring and loving every drop.

Evelia hummed and leaned back into the tub, opening her eyes and looking up at him. She resumed lathering the soap, smearing suds and water over her upper body. But her legs bent at the knees and dropped to the sides, opening herself for his access.

“Go on, then,” she said with a grin.

His cock gave an interested twitch.

Oh, how he loved what this woman did to him. He knew that she desired his commands, his control, his power over her, and he loved that despite the dissolution of the Inquisition, he would always be her Commander—but he was helpless when it came to whatever she wished. He wanted to give her everything and more. He would go to the very ends of the world for her, yet he knew it would be pointless since in the end she would take nothing but him.

Cullen perched on the edge of the tub and leaned down, brushing his lips against his lover’s before kissing her with a hunger he hoped would never be sated. He dipped his hand beneath the water but pulled back with a hiss.

“Andraste’s tits, woman!” he exclaimed, “How are you not boiling in that thing?”

She laughed and wiggled her hips. “You know I like hot.”

“You like everything hot,” he said, an edge to his voice.

“Indeed. That’s why I’m with you.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, the flush of his cheeks moving down to his neck.

“Here,” she said, quickly forming and dissipating a handful of ice crystals.

He slid his hand back into the water, wasting no time before he touched her most sensitive parts.

“Much better,” he said.

He rolled the pad of his thumb against her swollen clit, circling it with slow, calculative motions. She released a heavy sigh and he immediately curled his fingers into her entrance, pushing up until the length of them disappeared. He met little resistance—she was soaking deep within her core, ready for whatever means he would use to touch her. And they fluttered back and forth against her silky heat, massaging and stroking the spot he knew would spark her orgasm.

Cullen continued his assault on her little bundle of nerves and she involuntarily bucked against his hand, inadvertently sloshing water over the lip of the tub. He studied her face, her reactions—watching as her brows knit together and her lips parted on a soft, staccato of a moan. And just as Evelia pulled in a lungful of air to cry out her pleasure, Cullen's other _unoccupied_ hand flew immediately to her mouth, capturing her moans against his broad palm, her nose and hot breath cradled in the valley between his thumb and forefinger.

And she was gone in an instant—her inner walls pulsing and shuddering against his fingers, her limbs stiffening with the release of her stifled moan. 

He kept her mouth covered until the beating within her center had ceased and her ragged breath returned to mostly normal. A satisfied hummed sounded from within her throat when he withdrew, and Cullen leaned down to softly kissed her.

“I’m going to need that tub sometime soon,” he teased onto her mouth.

And as if on cue, her stomach rumbled.  Evelia lathered her hair and quickly dunked beneath the water, rinsing the soap from her locks and slipping a foamy hand over the parts of her she had yet to clean. After sending purifying spell through the water, s he cautiously stepped from the tub to grab a linen towel and threw her husband a teasing smirk.

“That doesn’t count, you know,” she said.

Cullen lifted a brow, a smug grin splitting his lips.   “No, it doesn’t.”

She watched as Cullen bathed, examining his white, ropey battle scars, his chiseled muscles, admiring the years of hard work he wore on his body. Would he change now that his title of Commander of the Inquisition had been retired and his daily training regimen was no longer necessary? Would his muscles slacken? Would he lose his darkened, sun-kissed complexion? Would he soften?

Would she?

He did not belong to the Templar Order and had no intention of returning to whatever role he could play there, so was his plan to resign to being a farmer or a city guard or…whatever Branson did for a living? They hadn’t really had much of a moment’s breath to discuss what their plans were moving forward, and Evelia didn’t know how she would be of much use in their guise of simple life, all things considered.

She looked down at her arm again, inspecting the scars from where the poultices and potions had hastened her recovery, and the muscles in her arm flexed as if she were clenching her fist.

“Evelia, don’t,” Cullen said, standing from the tub and wrapping his towel around his waist.

He approached her, enveloping her in his arms for her to rest her head against his shoulder with a confused and muffled sob.

“Look at me,” he said.

She obeyed and he cupped her cheek in his hand.

“You are amazing. You are wonderful and powerful and determined and strong. Don’t convince yourself that you are less or undesirable or unworthy. You are incredible and beautiful and the single, greatest thing in my life. I’ll tell you every single day, if I have to.”

“Oh, Cullen,” she said, lifting her teary face in search of his lips. He brushed his mouth against hers and they shared a deep and electrifying moment, lips touching but not moving, a connection that conveyed more than he could verbally express.

He pulled away and his grasp suddenly became firm against her jaw.

“And don’t think that you are less simply because of the choices of that horrible creature. _Everything_ is his fault,” he said with disdain.

“But without Solas, we wouldn’t—”

“Yes, yes,” he said, cutting her off with a begrudging tone, “I know.”

* * *

Mia’s spread was hearty—the table littered with roasted potatoes, carrots, fresh fish, and salt-cured meats. Hard and soft cheeses scattered over the table between breads and butters—both sweet and savory—and a variety of grapes, apples, and nuts.

She offered her guests wine or ale, and Rosalie was quick to secure a large flagon of apple cider instead.

The Rutherford family ate, laughed, and filled them in on the goings-on of their boring lives (as Rosalie had described them), before grilling both Cullen and Evelia on all things Inquisition—some of which they received no answer.

Barron scrambled on the floor, rolling around with Wolf and tossing him a crunch now and then, while Amelia took special interest in asking Cullen and Evelia about Vivienne and Leliana, the new Divine. Branson questioned about the Iron Bull and Varric, but Rosalie’s interest was a place rather than any one person in particular—and much to Cullen’s chagrin, she desired to hear as much about Val Royeaux and Orlais as they were willing to offer.

“So, we heard that all of Orlais just fawned over the Commander of the Inquisition. You wouldn’t believe the rumors I heard in Denerim.”

Cullen groaned, “Don’t tell me you believe that rubbish? Never in all my life would I have thought to be the subject of such ridiculousness that I’d spend more time dispelling rumors than actually doing work.” He shook his head and took a long dram of his ale.

“Oh, are you sure?” Rosalie teased, “I must admit, some of the things I heard were quite uncharacteristic of our dear brother.”

“They did everything they could to somehow ensnare me in their little game.” Cullen’s voice seethed, remembering every annoying detail of the Winter Palace. “Suffice it to say that whatever you heard, none of it is true.”

“Not even the rumor where you danced with the Inquisitor?”

Evelia snorted into her tankard and looked over at him, her eyes gleaming.

“How would you…well…” said Cullen, reaching to tug at the muscles in his neck.

Branson burst into laughter, “So, you did dance with her? Cullen ‘I-Do-Not-Dance’ Rutherford actually danced? And in public?!”

Underneath the table, Evelia grabbed at Cullen’s thigh affectionately and leaned into him.

“It wasn’t as public as you may think,” she said, taking over to save him the embarrassment, her voice warm with memory and ale. “I asked him first, believe it or not. And he turned me down! He was doing an excellent job of distracting all of those Orlesians, mind you, so I honestly didn’t expect him to neglect his duties for me. But once the ball came near to close, he found me all alone on a balcony—trying to sneak away from the prying eyes of the court, knowing that I was slightly miffed that I’d been denied by the only person I truly cared about—and he asked me to dance. And it was lovely.”

Cullen struggled to fight the desire to kiss her then and there, but instead let his hand settle around hers under the table, softly stroking the backs of her fingers.

“How romantic,” said Amelia, snaking her arm around her husband’s.

“Bullshit!” said Branson, grinning from ear to ear. “That can’t be the brother we sent off to the Chantry all these years ago.”

“No,” said Mia, “Cullen’s gone through so many different stages of life.” She looked him dead in the eye, “I couldn’t be more proud of the man you’ve become.”

His throat tightened. He could never forgive himself for all of his transgressions, all the atrocities he had committed—willingly and under outside influence—and that deep down, he felt he could never deserve what life and the Maker had given him. It was confusing, contradictory, incredible. He never believed he would ever be awarded anything in this life, and was whole-heartedly set on atoning for all his sins. He would continue to contribute good to the world, strive to serve, and protect, and to give. But with Evelia, he would work to earn her for the rest of his days.

So, he knew exactly what Mia meant by her words—that while she acknowledged he was shameful of the actions of his youth, she could see beyond and into the person he so desperately wanted to be and the person he’d become: a man desiring nothing more than to be worthy of everything he held dear, especially his wife—his single, most prized treasure.

He felt his face burn and tears brimmed his dark lashes.

“Thank you, Mia,” he said, his voice a bit broken on the words.

“To Cullen,” said Rosalie, raising her goblet of cider in the air, “for the man he’s become.”

“For the man he’s become,” they all said in unison, and Wolf gave a celebratory bark.

“Ah, Andraste’s…thank you, all…really, I…”

“Oh, shut it, you!” said Rosalie, “You’re all anyone can talk about. Just gloat in all of your glory like the rest of us would do. You’ve deserved it. The both of you.”

“Thank you,” he said again, and drowned his embarrassment with the remainder of his ale.

The evening progressed, and tankards were filled and filled again, the conversation rounding from reminiscence of their childhood to questions about Evelia's life in Ostwick—of which she was delicate about describing in too much detail. They told of stories from their adventures on the road, refuted gossip Rosalie had gathered from her friends in Denerim, and refused to indulge her questions about Seeker Pentaghast’s relationship with a certain dwarf.

And by the time the conversation landed on what would happen next, Barron was asleep in his mother’s arms, drooling on her shoulder, and Rosalie had her head cradled in her crossed arms on top of the table, gazing dreamily at her family. Wolf laid protectively at her feet.

“We haven’t had much of a chance to discuss those matters,” said Cullen with a shrug.

“You have no idea, whatsoever?” asked Branson.

“Somewhere here in Ferelden, I think,” he said, “That much we’ve agreed upon.”

Cullen smiled and glanced at Evelia, noticing that while her face was peaceful and full of warmth, eyes crinkling through slight inebriation, and chin nestled in the curl of her palm—an expression of interest his family would take fully at face-value—she was actually quite the opposite.

He read through the layers of her demeanor, a skill he’d finally begun to hone in over the last year. It wasn’t easy learning her tells, but spending nearly every waking hour with her at his side since Corypheus’ defeat, he’d finally become fluent in her body language and micro expressions.

And Maker, right now, she’s so tired.

She’s so tired, but unwilling to sacrifice his happiness for relief of exhaustion. His heart twisted with both affection and pain.

“Well,” he said, standing up from the table, “I’ve plenty more stories for tomorrow, but I think it’s time we take Barron’s cue and retire to bed.”

A wave of relief washed over Evelia's face, momentarily relaxing the wrinkle between her brows, and Cullen brushed his fingers against the back of her neck.

“We will see you tomorrow?” asked Rosalie.

“Indeed. We’ll have enough time for one more day before we must leave.”

She huffed and stood from the table, her siblings and Evelia following suit.

“Good,” she said.

* * *

Cullen rolled over onto his side, stretching out his arms in search of his wife, but instead met a bunched pillow and cool, knotted sheets. He lifted up slightly, squinting into the darkness in hopes of making out some sort of silhouette against what little light poured in. With a sleepy groan, he willed himself from the warmth of the bed and shuffled around, moving toward the desk on the right side of the room.

(Wolf raised his head just enough to inspect his partner’s intentions, and with a small huff, rolled over and resumed his sleep.)

Evelia sat on the chair facing toward the window with her legs pulled up into her chest—arm draped across her knees, her chin resting on her forearm. The troubled wrinkle on her brow would normally have troubled _Cullen_ , yet these last few weeks had become routine.

“Still having trouble sleeping?” he asked on a drowsy croak, despite the fact that he knew the answer.

“Mmhmm,” she said.

Cullen looked through the window, following her gaze past the lake, past the neighboring village, all the way to the silent rift flickering in the far-off distance. It danced like fireflies, arcing violent green—slowly twisting this way and that in its seemingly non-threatening suspension.

His heart dropped with a sigh.

“It’s not your fault, Ev,” he said, reaching for her shoulders. Fingers pressed into her tight muscles and he moved his grip in small, circular motions. Evellia relaxed slightly under his touch.

“I could have done something about it,” she said, her voice husky and tight.

It was true. There were still a few unsealed Fade rifts when the anchor was removed, and if she still had it, she could have done something about it—if she had lived long enough to even travel this far. The anchor was unrelenting, and it surely would have killed her if not consumed her entirely.

Yet even when he was Commander of the Inquisition, he couldn’t imagine what it was like in her position, to bear such power and such responsibility. He knew that without the anchor, she could have simply died at the Conclave like everyone else. But with the anchor, the weight of Thedas had been dropped on her shoulders—the same shoulders that he lovingly caressed—and despite that they no longer carried that burden, the constant reminder of her fate and the goodness of her heart still steered her will to desire action.

His hands stopped moving and he gave himself pause to revel in this notion—his chest twisting into conflicting knots of pride and pain.

“Cullen?”

She looked up and he glanced down at her, a soft but passive smile on his lips. He resumed his massage and she relaxed further, closing her eyes and releasing soft moans of approval and appreciation.

“It worries me that you’re having such difficulty sleeping,” he said.

She shrugged into his hands, “I fear this is becoming the norm.”

“It’s not always been this way, though,” he remarked, knowing that during the past two years that they shared the same bed, her sleep had been occasionally fitful and sometimes wrought with night terrors—just as his had—but at least she was able to get some rest.

But now, ever since the Exalted Council, she was lucky to get in three solid hours of sleep. And even though she tried best not to wake him when she silently retreated from the bed, the absence of her body next to him seeped down into his unconsciousness, drawing him from his own slumber every night.

She sighed. “I just don’t know,” she said solemnly.

Cullen moved his attention from her shoulders to down into her chest, kneading just below her collarbones. She dropped her head back to allow further access, breathing in deeply and releasing on a long and drawn-out exhale. He curled his fingers inward and worked his knuckles into the tension of her sternum, across the tops of her breasts where he knew she held tension.Cullen looked down into her face, watching as her brows twitched and her eyes finally relaxed their pained squint. He wished he could do more for her, take her suffering and guilt. Distract her from her dark and haunted thoughts. His fingers massaged a particularly tight knot, to which she let out a soft little moan. And he stopped.

Without thinking, he stepped around to her front and knelt before her, gently lifting one foot from the seat of the chair and setting it to the floor before proceeding with the other. His hands returned their ministrations to the tops of her thighs, forcing out any anxiety that may have traveled southward from her shoulders. He kneaded and pulled at her flesh, working upward until he reached the joints of her hips.  Evelia parted her legs and he gripped his hands firm around her ass, sliding her closer so that she was perched on the edge of the seat. 

Cullen lifted the glossy silk of her chemise to the side and returned his massage to her hips, working his thumbs in circular motions until they reached the border of sparse, soft curls.  He could see her arousal—the wetness of slick glinting from the moonlight. And he could smell her—the fragrance triggering memories and desires that fogged all other thought and hardened his cock to near discomfort. He let the motions of his right thumb gently stroke into her folds, coaxing at her already swollen clit and she moaned, _louder_.

“Shh,” he said, before burying his face into her. She took a full and silent gasp into her lungs.

His tongue flicked across her clit in quick motions, lapping at the sensitive bud until she squirmed. The fingers of his right hand teased at her folds while his left explored her body, snaking its way up to her breasts where he found her tight nipples erect against his touch. He drew circles around one of her delicate peaks.

“Cullen,” she whispered, slowing gyrating her hips into his mouth.

He could feel her shudder—could feel her orgasm just on the brink, but instead of pushing her arousal to completion, he moved down, lapping directly into her slick, pink flesh. He sucked her folds into his mouth, twisting his tongue in and around her so that he tasted and caressed every inch. And she nearly choked on her breath—feeling the soft pull of her lips moving in such a way—and her body responded in kind, flooding with heat and slick and ache.

His fore and middle fingers trailed on either side of her entrance, pressing into her skin to spread her further—allowing his tongue to dive deeper and he penetrate her over and over and over until he was lapping obscenely and groaning against her flushed thighs.

Again, she keened, curling her hips forward in frustration until she was all but lifted from her seat. And he grasped at her chest, his hold so firm that it verged on pain—a bright and explosive pain that beckoned for _more_. That craving swirled down her spine, settling in the hot and slick center of her being with a high and desperate desire to be filled. Her body shuddered, climbing up to the precipice of a blinding white pleasure.

But before she knew it, Cullen brought his lips back up to her clit, encompassing it with the heat of his open mouth. He hummed quietly, shaking his head back and forth—mouth clasped tightly over her mound and sending vibrations all the way up through her core. He slid two fingers into her dripping cunt with ease, spreading and pulsing them in time with his flicking his tongue—finally crossing her over into ecstasy and rending all of her nerve endings alight so that he could burn and then extinguish what troubles riddled her down to her bones.

Her body curled forward on shaky legs—her breath silent on a muted scream. She fisted the curls at the back of his head and he gripped at her ass, urging her thrusts forward as she rode out her orgasm on his face, coming hard and violently onto his tongue. The quick, half-silent gasps drifting from her lips slowly returned to normal, the pulsing within her eased, and Cullen softly withdrew his hand.

Evelia slumped back down on the chair, her body limp and tingling with a dull electricity, a satisfied and serene look upon her face. She let out a heavy sigh and softly smoothed her across her kneeling husband’s cheek.  He smiled up at her, swiped the back of his hand across his mouth before rising up just enough to kiss her. 

Without a word, he stood and took her hand, guiding her back to the bed through the darkness where she rejoined him once again. And within moments of resting her head upon her husband's chest in the comfort of his warm and solid embrace, the former Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor of the Inquisition, and Savior of Thedas—Evelia Treveylan, his wife, was asleep.


End file.
